Dreaming of Winter
by MiddayFiddler
Summary: The snow is like sugar and it is freezing to the marrow of his bones, but it is her. He would bear worse things to meet her once more.


He dreams sometimes.

There is snow in his dreams. Not loads of snow like last year, when the rim of his trousers never stopped being soaked for weeks, nor grey powder barely distinguishable from ash that graces Edo winter after winter. This snow is like sugar, blindingly white and soft and sweet, as far as you can taste or smell something in a dream. It is cold, too. Freezing actually, but stinging on his cheeks is so familiar that he does not complain. Can you complain in a dream?

He holds a paper bag with mugs. He does not need to look inside; there are two of them and both are in that happy shade of red that looks great with hot chocolate on Saturday morning. She will add Tabasco to her chocolate for sure, but it complements surprisingly well and he unexpectedly likes the taste. He smiles and does not feel inappropriately for once. Why shouldn't he smile, after all? There is nothing wrong with smiling.

She smiles as well.

She does not hold anything. She wanted to carry the mugs and they had a tiny argument a moment ago that died out pretty quickly when he offered her to carry his thick scarf on her neck instead. The scarf is red, too, so are her cheeks, but it is still the good shade, not the red of dried blood or feverish red, and she does not tremble anymore, so maybe he will let her carry some pillow or plates later if she insists. Maybe they should buy one mug for Sougo. He will visit for sure, and ask for chocolate as well, little needy brat. He will not get one of those though.

She points out another shop she wants to visit. He does not understand dishes, so he just follows her and carries pots and pans and notices that she never goes for the fancy ones and that her face brightens at the sight of bowls with grass pattern. They had ones just like that, back then. They must be cracked or broken already, lost somewhere in the dark insides of certain country dojo. Many things are buried there, like memories and his pride and her hairpin she forgot to take with her when moving to Edo. He will buy her new one. He will, as soon as he decides whether it should be similar to her old one or something entirely new. Maybe he should wait until he finds out her taste in jewellery. They have time, after all. All the time they want.

She does not buy clock, nor calendar.

She wants a new tapestry, because the one Kondou-san gave them as a wedding gift has strangely terrifying purple cranes with huge black eyes. She wants the one with dragonflies; there is no need for her to ask. There are no dragonflies in Edo, the river is too huge and full of garbage and riverbank is free of bushes for insects to live in. He will take her on a trip in the summer. He will take two or three days off, or even a whole week, and they will bath in sunlight and watch fireflies and tiny fish making circles on the lake. But it is still winter in his dream and they will have to do with pictures and love. She smiles at the tapestry and he feels a little jealous, because it is not him she is smiling at. What a fool you are, he thinks and buys the warm-coloured thing nevertheless. He pays and takes the bags and her hand, because she seems a little tired, and it feels like the nicest burden he has ever carried.

There is no one else on the street and time could have stopped for real.

They walk slowly, not just because she catches her breath and her cheeks are getting redder and redder. He knows he has to savour the moment. Her eyes follow falling snowflakes until they land on the ground or her nose or his shoulder, then she looks at him and smiles, smiles again or maybe she never stopped smiling at all. He puts bags down and checks her face for fever, not letting go of her hand. His palm lingers on her forehead, not really feeling her body temperature as well as all the small wrinkles on her skin from anger and sadness. She will soon have others, from surprise and smiling and he will gladly discover all of them, carefully one after another, because then he will know she is happy. He wants nothing more.

She leans towards his touch and their shoulders bump and he is glad he is not wearing his uniform today, not only because he never has to be the Vice-Commander with her, but he would not feel her heartbeat through that hard, unfriendly fabric. She leans further and her breath reaches his face. It is warm, the good kind of warm, the one that fills their home even when it is freezing outside. His hand should be freezing, but he does not feel anything, as he puts a strand of sand-coloured hair behind her ear and their lips are just one breath apart. And that feels like an immeasurable distance that should be crossed, because one day there will not be any destination, just gray air and hollow emptiness. Not in this dream though. That is what dreams are made for, and her lips chapped from chilly January wind are curved with smile and little blue from cold and he wants to share this warmness with them, because every bit of her deserves to feel loved. The winter is all around them though, and his me in the dreams likes unnecessary and unwelcomed thoughts as much as his real one does. She does not talk, not even a word, not even a sound. It does not feel right; this is not Mitsuba he used to know before she disappeared in disinfectant smell and white sheets and Sougo's silent sobs. This one is a shrine. Untouchable and non-existent and shivering from unbearable cold his arms could never make go away. Winter, why is it winter? Was it winter when she died? Has it always been winter?

The snow is like sugar and it is freezing to the marrow of his bones, but it is _her_. He would bear worse things to meet her once more.

He dreams and sometimes he wishes he would never dream again. Sometimes he wishes he would never wake up.


End file.
